by Thomas Hardy
CHAPTER XV
A MORNING MEETING--THE LETTER AGAIN
The scarlet and orange light outside the malthouse did not penetrateto its interior, which was, as usual, lighted by a rival glow ofsimilar hue, radiating from the hearth.
The maltster, after having lain down in his clothes for a fewhours, was now sitting beside a three-legged table, breakfasting ofbread and bacon. This was eaten on the plateless system, which isperformed by placing a slice of bread upon the table, the meat flatupon the bread, a mustard plaster upon the meat, and a pinch of saltupon the whole, then cutting them vertically downwards with a largepocket-knife till wood is reached, when the severed lump is impaledon the knife, elevated, and sent the proper way of food.
The maltster's lack of teeth appeared not to sensibly diminishhis powers as a mill. He had been without them for so many yearsthat toothlessness was felt less to be a defect than hard gums anacquisition. Indeed, he seemed to approach the grave as a hyperboliccurve approaches a straight line--less directly as he got nearer,till it was doubtful if he would ever reach it at all.
In the ashpit was a heap of potatoes roasting, and a boiling pipkinof charred bread, called "coffee", for the benefit of whomsoevershould call, for Warren's was a sort of clubhouse, used as analternative to the inn.
"I say, says I, we get a fine day, and then down comes a snapper atnight," was a remark now suddenly heard spreading into the malthousefrom the door, which had been opened the previous moment. The formof Henery Fray advanced to the fire, stamping the snow from his bootswhen about half-way there. The speech and entry had not seemed to beat all an abrupt beginning to the maltster, introductory matter beingoften omitted in this neighbourhood, both from word and deed, andthe maltster having the same latitude allowed him, did not hurry toreply. He picked up a fragment of cheese, by pecking upon it withhis knife, as a butcher picks up skewers.
Henery appeared in a drab kerseymere great-coat, buttoned over hissmock-frock, the white skirts of the latter being visible to thedistance of about a foot below the coat-tails, which, when yougot used to the style of dress, looked natural enough, and evenornamental--it certainly was comfortable.
Matthew Moon, Joseph Poorgrass, and other carters and waggonersfollowed at his heels, with great lanterns dangling from their hands,which showed that they had just come from the cart-horse stables,where they had been busily engaged since four o'clock that morning.
"And how is she getting on without a baily?" the maltster inquired.Henery shook his head, and smiled one of the bitter smiles, draggingall the flesh of his forehead into a corrugated heap in the centre.
"She'll rue it--surely, surely!" he said. "Benjy Pennyways were nota true man or an honest baily--as big a betrayer as Judas Iscariothimself. But to think she can carr' on alone!" He allowed his headto swing laterally three or four times in silence. "Never in all mycreeping up--never!"
This was recognized by all as the conclusion of some gloomy speechwhich had been expressed in thought alone during the shake of thehead; Henery meanwhile retained several marks of despair upon hisface, to imply that they would be required for use again directlyhe should go on speaking.
"All will be ruined, and ourselves too, or there's no meat ingentlemen's houses!" said Mark Clark.
"A headstrong maid, that's what she is--and won't listen to no adviceat all. Pride and vanity have ruined many a cobbler's dog. Dear,dear, when I think o' it, I sorrows like a man in travel!"
"True, Henery, you do, I've heard ye," said Joseph Poorgrass in avoice of thorough attestation, and with a wire-drawn smile of misery.
"'Twould do a martel man no harm to have what's under her bonnet,"said Billy Smallbury, who had just entered, bearing his one toothbefore him. "She can spaik real language, and must have some sensesomewhere. Do ye foller me?"
"I do, I do; but no baily--I deserved that place," wailed Henery,signifying wasted genius by gazing blankly at visions of a highdestiny apparently visible to him on Billy Smallbury's smock-frock."There, 'twas to be, I suppose. Your lot is your lot, and Scriptureis nothing; for if you do good you don't get rewarded according toyour works, but be cheated in some mean way out of your recompense."
"No, no; I don't agree with'ee there," said Mark Clark. "God's aperfect gentleman in that respect."
"Good works good pay, so to speak it," attested Joseph Poorgrass.
A short pause ensued, and as a sort of _entr'acte_ Henery turned andblew out the lanterns, which the increase of daylight rendered nolonger necessary even in the malthouse, with its one pane of glass.
"I wonder what a farmer-woman can want with a harpsichord, dulcimer,pianner, or whatever 'tis they d'call it?" said the maltster. "Liddysaith she've a new one."
"Got a pianner?"
"Ay. Seems her old uncle's things were not good enough for her.She've bought all but everything new. There's heavy chairs for thestout, weak and wiry ones for the slender; great watches, getting onto the size of clocks, to stand upon the chimbley-piece."
"Pictures, for the most part wonderful frames."
"And long horse-hair settles for the drunk, with horse-hair pillowsat each end," said Mr. Clark. "Likewise looking-glasses for thepretty, and lying books for the wicked."
A firm loud tread was now heard stamping outside; the door was openedabout six inches, and somebody on the other side exclaimed--
"Neighbours, have ye got room for a few new-born lambs?"
"Ay, sure, shepherd," said the conclave.
The door was flung back till it kicked the wall and trembled fromtop to bottom with the blow. Mr. Oak appeared in the entry with asteaming face, hay-bands wound about his ankles to keep out the snow,a leather strap round his waist outside the smock-frock, and lookingaltogether an epitome of the world's health and vigour. Four lambshung in various embarrassing attitudes over his shoulders, and thedog George, whom Gabriel had contrived to fetch from Norcombe,stalked solemnly behind.
"Well, Shepherd Oak, and how's lambing this year, if I mid say it?"inquired Joseph Poorgrass.
"Terrible trying," said Oak. "I've been wet through twice a-day,either in snow or rain, this last fortnight. Cainy and I haven'ttined our eyes to-night."
"A good few twins, too, I hear?"
"Too many by half. Yes; 'tis a very queer lambing this year. Weshan't have done by Lady Day."
"And last year 'twer all over by Sexajessamine Sunday," Josephremarked.
"Bring on the rest Cain," said Gabriel, "and then run back to theewes. I'll follow you soon."
Cainy Ball--a cheery-faced young lad, with a small circular orificeby way of mouth, advanced and deposited two others, and retired as hewas bidden. Oak lowered the lambs from their unnatural elevation,wrapped them in hay, and placed them round the fire.
"We've no lambing-hut here, as I used to have at Norcombe," saidGabriel, "and 'tis such a plague to bring the weakly ones to a house.If 'twasn't for your place here, malter, I don't know what I shoulddo i' this keen weather. And how is it with you to-day, malter?"
"Oh, neither sick nor sorry, shepherd; but no younger."
"Ay--I understand."
"Sit down, Shepherd Oak," continued the ancient man of malt. "Andhow was the old place at Norcombe, when ye went for your dog? Ishould like to see the old familiar spot; but faith, I shouldn't knowa soul there now."
"I suppose you wouldn't. 'Tis altered very much."
"Is it true that Dicky Hill's wooden cider-house is pulled down?"
"Oh yes--years ago, and Dicky's cottage just above it."
"Well, to be sure!"
"Yes; and Tompkins's old apple-tree is rooted that used to bear twohogsheads of cider; and no help from other trees."
"Rooted?--you don't say it! Ah! stirring times we live in--stirringtimes."
"And you can mind the old well that used to be in the middle of theplace? That's turned into a solid iron pump with a large stonetrough, and all complete."
"Dear, dear--how the face of nations alter, and what we live
to seenowadays! Yes--and 'tis the same here. They've been talking but nowof the mis'ess's strange doings."
"What have you been saying about her?" inquired Oak, sharply turningto the rest, and getting very warm.
"These middle-aged men have been pulling her over the coals for prideand vanity," said Mark Clark; "but I say, let her have rope enough.Bless her pretty face--shouldn't I like to do so--upon her cherrylips!" The gallant Mark Clark here made a peculiar and well knownsound with his own.
"Mark," said Gabriel, sternly, "now you mind this! none of thatdalliance-talk--that smack-and-coddle style of yours--about MissEverdene. I don't allow it. Do you hear?"
"With all my heart, as I've got no chance," replied Mr. Clark,cordially.
"I suppose you've been speaking against her?" said Oak, turning toJoseph Poorgrass with a very grim look.
"No, no--not a word I--'tis a real joyful thing that she's no worse,that's what I say," said Joseph, trembling and blushing with terror."Matthew just said--"
"Matthew Moon, what have you been saying?" asked Oak.
"I? Why ye know I wouldn't harm a worm--no, not one undergroundworm?" said Matthew Moon, looking very uneasy.
"Well, somebody has--and look here, neighbours," Gabriel, though oneof the quietest and most gentle men on earth, rose to the occasion,with martial promptness and vigour. "That's my fist." Here heplaced his fist, rather smaller in size than a common loaf, in themathematical centre of the maltster's little table, and with it gavea bump or two thereon, as if to ensure that their eyes all thoroughlytook in the idea of fistiness before he went further. "Now--thefirst man in the parish that I hear prophesying bad of our mistress,why" (here the fist was raised and let fall as Thor might have donewith his hammer in assaying it)--"he'll smell and taste that--or I'ma Dutchman."
All earnestly expressed by their features that their minds did notwander to Holland for a moment on account of this statement, but weredeploring the difference which gave rise to the figure; and MarkClark cried "Hear, hear; just what I should ha' said." The dog Georgelooked up at the same time after the shepherd's menace, and though heunderstood English but imperfectly, began to growl.
"Now, don't ye take on so, shepherd, and sit down!" said Henery,with a deprecating peacefulness equal to anything of the kind inChristianity.
"We hear that ye be a extraordinary good and clever man, shepherd,"said Joseph Poorgrass with considerable anxiety from behind themaltster's bedstead, whither he had retired for safety. "'Tis agreat thing to be clever, I'm sure," he added, making movementsassociated with states of mind rather than body; "we wish we were,don't we, neighbours?"
"Ay, that we do, sure," said Matthew Moon, with a small anxious laughtowards Oak, to show how very friendly disposed he was likewise.
"Who's been telling you I'm clever?" said Oak.
"'Tis blowed about from pillar to post quite common," said Matthew."We hear that ye can tell the time as well by the stars as we can bythe sun and moon, shepherd."
"Yes, I can do a little that way," said Gabriel, as a man of mediumsentiments on the subject.
"And that ye can make sun-dials, and prent folks' names upon theirwaggons almost like copper-plate, with beautiful flourishes, andgreat long tails. A excellent fine thing for ye to be such a cleverman, shepherd. Joseph Poorgrass used to prent to Farmer JamesEverdene's waggons before you came, and 'a could never mind which wayto turn the J's and E's--could ye, Joseph?" Joseph shook his headto express how absolute was the fact that he couldn't. "And so youused to do 'em the wrong way, like this, didn't ye, Joseph?" Matthewmarked on the dusty floor with his whip-handle
[the word J A M E S appears here with the "J" and the "E" printed backwards]
"And how Farmer James would cuss, and call thee a fool, wouldn't he,Joseph, when 'a seed his name looking so inside-out-like?" continuedMatthew Moon with feeling.
"Ay--'a would," said Joseph, meekly. "But, you see, I wasn't so muchto blame, for them J's and E's be such trying sons o' witches for thememory to mind whether they face backward or forward; and I alwayshad such a forgetful memory, too."
"'Tis a very bad affliction for ye, being such a man of calamities inother ways."
"Well, 'tis; but a happy Providence ordered that it should be noworse, and I feel my thanks. As to shepherd, there, I'm sure mis'essought to have made ye her baily--such a fitting man for't as you be."
"I don't mind owning that I expected it," said Oak, frankly."Indeed, I hoped for the place. At the same time, Miss Everdene hasa right to be her own baily if she choose--and to keep me down to bea common shepherd only." Oak drew a slow breath, looked sadly intothe bright ashpit, and seemed lost in thoughts not of the mosthopeful hue.
The genial warmth of the fire now began to stimulate the nearlylifeless lambs to bleat and move their limbs briskly upon the hay,and to recognize for the first time the fact that they were born.Their noise increased to a chorus of baas, upon which Oak pulled themilk-can from before the fire, and taking a small tea-pot from thepocket of his smock-frock, filled it with milk, and taught those ofthe helpless creatures which were not to be restored to their damshow to drink from the spout--a trick they acquired with astonishingaptitude.
"And she don't even let ye have the skins of the dead lambs, I hear?"resumed Joseph Poorgrass, his eyes lingering on the operations of Oakwith the necessary melancholy.
"I don't have them," said Gabriel.
"Ye be very badly used, shepherd," hazarded Joseph again, in the hopeof getting Oak as an ally in lamentation after all. "I think she'stook against ye--that I do."
"Oh no--not at all," replied Gabriel, hastily, and a sigh escapedhim, which the deprivation of lamb skins could hardly have caused.
Before any further remark had been added a shade darkened the door,and Boldwood entered the malthouse, bestowing upon each a nod of aquality between friendliness and condescension.
"Ah! Oak, I thought you were here," he said. "I met the mail-cartten minutes ago, and a letter was put into my hand, which I openedwithout reading the address. I believe it is yours. You must excusethe accident please."
"Oh yes--not a bit of difference, Mr. Boldwood--not a bit," saidGabriel, readily. He had not a correspondent on earth, nor was therea possible letter coming to him whose contents the whole parish wouldnot have been welcome to peruse.
Oak stepped aside, and read the following in an unknown hand:--
DEAR FRIEND,--I do not know your name, but I think these few lines will reach you, which I wrote to thank you for your kindness to me the night I left Weatherbury in a reckless way. I also return the money I owe you, which you will excuse my not keeping as a gift. All has ended well, and I am happy to say I am going to be married to the young man who has courted me for some time--Sergeant Troy, of the 11th Dragoon Guards, now quartered in this town. He would, I know, object to my having received anything except as a loan, being a man of great respectability and high honour--indeed, a nobleman by blood.
I should be much obliged to you if you would keep the contents of this letter a secret for the present, dear friend. We mean to surprise Weatherbury by coming there soon as husband and wife, though I blush to state it to one nearly a stranger. The sergeant grew up in Weatherbury. Thanking you again for your kindness,
I am, your sincere well-wisher, FANNY ROBIN.
"Have you read it, Mr. Boldwood?" said Gabriel; "if not, you hadbetter do so. I know you are interested in Fanny Robin."
Boldwood read the letter and looked grieved.
"Fanny--poor Fanny! the end she is so confident of has not yetcome, she should remember--and may never come. I see she gives noaddress."
"What sort of a man is this Sergeant Troy?" said Gabriel.
"H'm--I'm afraid not one to build much hope upon in such a case asthis," the farmer murmured, "though he's a clever fellow, and up toeverything. A slight romance attaches to him, too. His mother wasa French governess, and it seems tha
t a secret attachment existedbetween her and the late Lord Severn. She was married to a poormedical man, and soon after an infant was born; and while money wasforthcoming all went on well. Unfortunately for her boy, his bestfriends died; and he got then a situation as second clerk at alawyer's in Casterbridge. He stayed there for some time, and mighthave worked himself into a dignified position of some sort had he notindulged in the wild freak of enlisting. I have much doubt if everlittle Fanny will surprise us in the way she mentions--very muchdoubt. A silly girl!--silly girl!"
The door was hurriedly burst open again, and in came running CainyBall out of breath, his mouth red and open, like the bell of a pennytrumpet, from which he coughed with noisy vigour and great distensionof face.
"Now, Cain Ball," said Oak, sternly, "why will you run so fast andlose your breath so? I'm always telling you of it."
"Oh--I--a puff of mee breath--went--the--wrong way, please, MisterOak, and made me cough--hok--hok!"
"Well--what have you come for?"
"I've run to tell ye," said the junior shepherd, supporting hisexhausted youthful frame against the doorpost, "that you must comedirectly. Two more ewes have twinned--that's what's the matter,Shepherd Oak."
"Oh, that's it," said Oak, jumping up, and dimissing for the presenthis thoughts on poor Fanny. "You are a good boy to run and tell me,Cain, and you shall smell a large plum pudding some day as a treat.But, before we go, Cainy, bring the tarpot, and we'll mark this lotand have done with 'em."
Oak took from his illimitable pockets a marking iron, dipped itinto the pot, and imprinted on the buttocks of the infant sheep theinitials of her he delighted to muse on--"B. E.," which signified toall the region round that henceforth the lambs belonged to FarmerBathsheba Everdene, and to no one else.
"Now, Cainy, shoulder your two, and off. Good morning, Mr. Boldwood."The shepherd lifted the sixteen large legs and four small bodies hehad himself brought, and vanished with them in the direction of thelambing field hard by--their frames being now in a sleek and hopefulstate, pleasantly contrasting with their death's-door plight of halfan hour before.
Boldwood followed him a little way up the field, hesitated, andturned back. He followed him again with a last resolve, annihilatingreturn. On approaching the nook in which the fold was constructed,the farmer drew out his pocket-book, unfastened it, and allowed it tolie open on his hand. A letter was revealed--Bathsheba's.
"I was going to ask you, Oak," he said, with unreal carelessness, "ifyou know whose writing this is?"
Oak glanced into the book, and replied instantly, with a flushedface, "Miss Everdene's."
Oak had coloured simply at the consciousness of sounding her name.He now felt a strangely distressing qualm from a new thought. Theletter could of course be no other than anonymous, or the inquirywould not have been necessary.
Boldwood mistook his confusion: sensitive persons are always readywith their "Is it I?" in preference to objective reasoning.
"The question was perfectly fair," he returned--and there wassomething incongruous in the serious earnestness with which heapplied himself to an argument on a valentine. "You know it isalways expected that privy inquiries will be made: that's wherethe--fun lies." If the word "fun" had been "torture," it could nothave been uttered with a more constrained and restless countenancethan was Boldwood's then.
Soon parting from Gabriel, the lonely and reserved man returned tohis house to breakfast--feeling twinges of shame and regret at havingso far exposed his mood by those fevered questions to a stranger. Heagain placed the letter on the mantelpiece, and sat down to think ofthe circumstances attending it by the light of Gabriel's information.
